


Dr. Jekyll and Miss Babcock

by ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10772241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Episode: The Mad, Mad Tea Party AffairPrompt 1: As they discuss giving Kay Lorrison the Jekyll-Hyde routine, Illya says to Napoleon, “You haven’t played the villain for a long time.” So the questions arise…When was the last time Napoleon played the villain? Why has it been so long? Is it really that Illya is so much better at it? Did it not go so well the last time Napoleon took the role of the heavy?





	Dr. Jekyll and Miss Babcock

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Great Episode Challenge on LiveJournal's Section7MFU
> 
> Miss Babcock is heavily inspired by the film _Auntie Mame_ and Gloria Upson.

The agent sat down at the table with a smile that exuded boyish charm. He carefully smoothed his gold silk necktie and tugged at his French cuffs, before saying in a warmly reassuring voice, “My dear Miss Babcock…”

Miss Babcock tossed her head and thrust her arm across to him. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re back.”

The agent caught her hand between his own. “I am sorry you were distressed,” he said soothingly, patting her fingers.

“You can’t imagine the things he said to me. They were ghastly. Just ghastly.”

“I am afraid he has no savoir-faire, particularly when dealing with a woman of delicate sensibilities.”

“He’s an absolute beast,” she declared with an angry sniff. She tossed her head again, and her close-cropped platinum curls quivered.

Behind his sympathetic mask, Illya regarded his assignment with aversion. His earlier satisfaction at winning the coin toss, deepened by Napoleon’s obvious disappointment, had long since evaporated. A poodle, he decided. Her hair, her mannerisms, they reminded him of a show dog, primped and pampered.

Illya swallowed his distaste and bent to kiss her hand. The sun-baked skin, redolent of expensive lotion, felt like leather on his lips. He fought the urge to sneeze. Even the certainty of his partner watching the monitor with an envious frown could not restore his enjoyment of this role.

He released her hand and made a show of hunting for his glasses. “Miss Babcock,” he began, as he slipped them on.

“Call me Bunny, Mr. Kuryakin. All my friends call me Bunny.” She laughed, the sound falling harshly on his ears. “That name of yours. Really, it’s just a mouthful. There must be something else I can call you.”

He considered the suggestion that she unclench her jaws if she wished to say his name more easily. With Herculean effort, he resisted. “My friends call me Illya.”

“Well, that’s not very kind of them, I must say.”

He blinked at her. “Not at all. It is my name.”

She shrugged. “Oh. Still, that won’t do at all. Haven’t you got another one? You know, less…foreign?”

“How does Nicholas suit you?”

“Nicholas.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and adopted an attitude of contemplation. Smoke rose in a sinuous column from the corner of her mouth. “Nick. Yes, that’s much better. I don’t know why you bother with the other one at all.”

“Why, indeed.” He adjusted his glasses and looked down at the report on the table. “Now, Miss Bab—, I mean, Bunny. It is vitally important that you remember the exact clubs and the order in which he offered them to you.”

“As I told that beastly Mr. Solo, I can’t. I simply can’t.”

Illya slid a photo toward her. “But you do remember this man.”

She glanced at the snapshot of the Thrush agent and shrugged. “I recall having a terribly incompetent caddy. As soon as we finished our round, I marched right into the clubhouse and demanded he be dismissed.”

“And this is that man?”

“I suppose. One doesn’t pay close attention to a caddy.”

Illya flipped a page of the report. “It says here that you were, and I quote, ‘flirting with him outrageously.’”

She inhaled sharply and smashed her cigarette in the ashtray. “Well, I never. Who said that? Was it Muriel? I’ll scratch her eyes out.”

“Whoever it was, I am sure they were motivated purely by jealousy.”

She relaxed slightly. “Of course, they were. As if I’d give the time of day to that, that riff-raff.”

Illya offered her another cigarette and struck a match. She rested her hand on his while she took the light, holding it so long that the flame almost reached his fingers. He pulled his arm away sharply. Sharper words rose to his lips, but he held them back with an encouraging smile.

Her glance was coy. “Do you like golf, Nicky?”

“I am constantly working to improve my swing.”

“Perhaps if we played a round, it would refresh my memory. I suppose Vanny would be acceptable.” She tossed her head and patted her curls. “Not New Jersey, though. One must maintain some standards.”

He moved a hand below the table and clenched his fist. “We have a gymnasium here. If I secure a set of clubs, we could act out the match.”

“Not the same.” She leaned forward, her eyes alight; Illya sat up until his back touched the chair. “I have an idea. A simply terrific idea. We have a little tournament at the Club this weekend. The boys play caddy for the girls, and then they escort us to the dance afterwards.”

“And you think this man will be there?” he asked, his sense of dread increasing.

“No, silly. You could be my date. And I just know I’d remember all about the clubs and whatnot.” 

“I still think the gymnasium—”

She extinguished her cigarette and continued as if he had not spoken. “And wait until you see my skort. There’s practically nothing to it. The board wouldn’t even approve of my wearing it until Daddy told them he’d refurbish the swimming pool.” 

“Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves, Miss—”

“I’ll need a new dress, of course. My red one would have been fine for dancing with Tommy Markham, but I think blue would go better with you.” She pulled a compact from her purse and examined her lipstick. “I saw one at Bergdorff’s the other day that I know you’ll be mad for. Call us a taxi, and we’ll be there in two shakes.”

“Miss Babcock,” Illya barked, his chair scraping the floor as he rose to his feet. Bunny turned and met his eyes. “As charming as that sounds, I am afraid I cannot wait until this weekend.”

She clicked her red lacquered nails on the table. “I think you’re being terribly unreasonable. There’s a prize for the handsomest pair, and we’d be certain to win.”

“I am sorry, Bunny, but I need that information today.”

She threw herself back with a pout. “Old meany. You’re no better than that Mr. Solo.”

A light blinked on the wall behind her. “Poor Bunny. It has been a trying day. Why don’t I get you something to eat?” 

He exited the room before she could respond. Napoleon stood in the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Are you ready to snarl at her again?” Illya asked hopefully.

“Ah, not quite. Mr. Waverly likes the idea of the tournament.”

“You are joking. That means a delay of several days.”

“He seems to think we can afford it.”

“All right. At least I will have time to brush up on my golf game.” He turned toward the door. “I will go back and make the date.”

He was stopped by Napoleon’s hand on his arm. “Actually, you won’t.” His partner smiled smugly. “Mr. Waverly also thinks I’d be better suited to mingle with the country club set.”

Dawn broke, and a choir of angels sang. Illya set a chill in his eyes and asked, “Does he? And what put that idea into his head?”

“I can’t imagine. Maybe your proletarian blood was showing.” He patted Illya’s face. “So, Nicky, I’m here to relieve you.”

Illya turned his cheek away. “I stand relieved,” he said, hoping the sincerity was not evident in his voice.

“Bunny and I will be a shoo-in for that Handsomest Pair award.” Napoleon rolled his shoulders and adjusted his cuffs. As the door slid open, he turned and winked. “Now to let her tame the beast.”

Illya waited for the door to close before exhaling in satisfaction. He made for the elevator, working at the buttons on the checkered vest which Napoleon insisted made him look more approachable. “Now for a nice, comfortable turtleneck,” he murmured. “And I think I will be doing the snarling for a while.”


End file.
